Despite the noise of the thunderstorm, I was able to discern what sounded like the sound of a shutter, banging against a window upstairs. The noise changed to a sharper sound,, then I heard the sound of glass breaking. I had a quick flashback of Julia, at 14, throwing pebbles at my window to lure me out of the house to spend time with her. I processed the likelihood that it would be Julia at 4a.m. on a Friday morning in June during a humdinger of a thunder storm. Ridiculous.
When I go into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, I am suddenly gripped with the knowledge that Julia is out there. I run to the porch just as a bolt of lightning slams into the ground a couple of hundred yards from the house. In the brilliant after glow that last mere seconds, I see her. I see her vault from the ground as the loud, percussive sound of thunder follows on the heels of the lightning strike. Julia jumps up onto my porch; she is nearly weightless when she flies into my arms. She is wet, her hair looks like she just came of the shower. I had forgotten a long ago discovery that, a woman, soaked to the skin, seems more vulnerable than when she is dry. I fold my arms around her, close my eyes and silence all my thoughts for the two minutes I hold her. I know that there when she walks out of my embrace, the sweet purity of our love will be besieged by external forces.
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